


Love and Squalor

by bea_bickerknife



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV), A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: Breaking News: Area Man Gets Rude Awakening, Canonically Dysfunctional Spousal Relationship, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Literally the Opposite of Domestic Bliss, implied adultery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-04-14 10:22:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14134083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bea_bickerknife/pseuds/bea_bickerknife
Summary: Tonight was a turning point for their marriage, Jerome thought. He could feel it in his bones.





	Love and Squalor

**Author's Note:**

> As ever, I own none of the characters in this work, nor do I derive any remuneration from its posting.

As a young boy, Jerome Squalor befriended a feral cat.

Pitch-black and vicious, it had stalked the grounds of the family estate for months, picking off the game fowl one by one and terrorizing his younger siblings. Everyone who came too close to it had the scars to prove it.

Everyone except Jerome, who had spent nearly every evening since the cat’s first appearance sneaking table scraps into his pocket and setting them beside the entrance to its den by the brook before sitting down nearby, still and calm and quiet. With its diet supplemented by foie gras and caviar, the cat had ventured gradually closer until one night it meandered toward him, sniffed cautiously at his hand, curled up against his left thigh, and promptly fell asleep.

When he overheard the butler telling the gardener that the master of the house had ordered the animal shot, Jerome marched straight to his father’s study, rapped lightly on the door, slipped inside, and did something that his mother’s birch switch and wooden paddle had taught him never to do.

He argued. True, he kept his voice quiet, and he hid his shaking hands behind his back as if he were reciting lines of poetry for his tutor, but the very fact that words like _no_ and _don’t_ were coming from his eldest son’s mouth was enough to convince Mr. Squalor that the matter warranted further consideration. Jerome’s efforts had spared the cat, which in turn became his constant companion whenever he ventured outdoors, but he never forgot that it took the better part of six months to earn its affection, let alone its trust.

Twenty years later, stepping out of the elevator at 667 Dark Avenue and padding over plush carpet to the penthouse door, Jerome reminded himself that he’d known his wife for barely half that long. _It’s all new to her, too_ , he reasoned as he slid his key into the lock. _And everyone adjusts at different speeds. She’ll put her claws away when she understands she’s safe, so just wait._ Closing the door gently behind him, he steeled himself for another solitary evening. _Wait until she comes to you._

Returning home early from work seemed to be one of those habits that irritated Esmé. While Jerome wished she wouldn’t express her agitation quite so loudly or with quite so much slamming of doors, he, too, found comfort in reliable routines, so he tried to look at it as something they shared in common. Whenever possible, he arrived at precisely six o’clock; on days like today, when it really was impossible – a power outage had forced the office to close early, his club was undergoing renovations, and the weather was so ghastly that the City had all but shut down – he tucked himself away in the library with a mug of hot chocolate and a book of Wordsworth, taking care not to emerge until the appointed hour.

Having placed his umbrella neatly in its stand by the door, he was just turning toward the nearest kitchen when a splash of red caught his eye on the marble floor. At first it looked like an autumn leaf, and he made a mental note to have a word with the housekeeping staff. Then he rounded the corner and came across another one, and another, and yet more, all leading down the long hallway toward his bedroom, and he looked closer.

_Rose petals_. A pleasurable flush crept up his neck. _Dear god, she **remembered** , _he thought, and strode down the familiar corridor with a spring in his step and a decidedly _un_ familiar lightness in his chest.

That night – that sublime, ecstatic, _perfect_ night with her – was seared so clearly into his memory that it seemed to burn. It seemed to Jerome that he could still recall the precise timbre of their shared laughter over the absurdity of the blind date, the exact order of her caresses, the peculiar way he couldn’t quite bring himself to wake her the next morning. He played through all of it in his mind every night, and every night he lingered on an echo of Esmé’s voice.

_One day_ , she had murmured, _one day, darling, you’re going to come home and you’re going to find me in your bed, and all I’ll be wearing is a handful of petals from that bouquet you brought me tonight._ Then came the whirlwind of the wedding and his near-death experience on their honeymoon and the sudden chill that had settled over Esmé when they returned, and he wrote the whole thing off as a sweet nothing whispered in the heat of passion.

_But it wasn’t **nothing** after all_. Pausing to straighten his tie in the mirror outside his bedroom, he caught himself grinning for what felt like the first time since that fateful evening. He felt for once as if he might look almost handsome, might really be the kind of man who _deserved_ someone like Esmé. _She meant it. She’s ready to come to you._       

“Esmé, my love,” he began as he stepped over the threshold, “I can’t tell you how glad I am to…”

The smell hit him first. Thick and musky and tawdry, there was no mistaking it. Nor was there any mistaking the tangle of his sheets or the pair of stubbed-out cigarettes in the ashtray or the look of spent satisfaction on Esmé’s face as she slept, a handful of vivid petals still stuck to her skin.

Jerome’s mouth felt suddenly, desperately dry, as though the rest of his declaration had withered and died on his tongue. The weight returned to his chest and he wanted to shout, wanted to break something, wanted to _argue_ ; instead, he pulled the door closed in utter silence.

He still couldn’t bring himself to wake her.

**Author's Note:**

> This piece was requested by an anonymous Tumblr user


End file.
